


Gold Light Shining

by terepys



Category: Dark Souls (Video Games), Dark Souls I
Genre: F/M, Slow Burn, Trans Female Character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-18
Updated: 2019-04-18
Packaged: 2020-01-15 19:59:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18506020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/terepys/pseuds/terepys
Summary: The glory of Gwyn's City of Light is all but blinding, especially to the lone Wolf thrown so suddenly over the walls surrounding Anor Londo. Seeking respite from this glare confronts Artorias with something so much more brilliant than even the Sun itself.





	Gold Light Shining

**Author's Note:**

> This is intended to be a likely lengthy fic focusing on a slowburn relationship between Artorias and Gwyndolin, with a primary setting focus on the heyday of Anor Londo and the prime age of Dark Souls' cast. I don't have a solid update schedule planned, but I hope to add on somewhat punctually, especially to get to the main dynamic of the plot... Or even the introduction of Gwyndolin in the first place, which will definitely come sooner than later.
> 
> This is also my first fanfiction attempt, so any constructive criticism, advice, or comments are gladly welcomed. I am somewhat unfamiliar with tagging, so I will try to keep tags to important characters only, and update as certain actors become more prevalent or get more story throughout the fic. For starters, I'm mostly going to keep it focused to Artorias and Gwyndolin, with Ornstein as a major supporting character. There are plans for the future to build more side stories and include others, and I'll try to update accordingly as this continues.
> 
> An important mention for this piece is that Gwyndolin will be referred to with she/her pronouns due to personal headcanon that she is a trans woman.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finding himself suddenly in a lofty golden city, Artorias feels suffocated by pomp and ceremony. Without any company but that of the Lion Knight Ornstein, Artorias tries to contain himself in a land known only through fairy tales.

“I dub thee, Knight Artorias. Taketh thee now my sword to thy side, so that thou mayest serve and defend me well. Arise, Sir Knight.”

The weight of the sword upon the newly knighted Artorias’ shoulder paled in comparison to the palpable silence blanketing the grand cathedral of Anor Londo. He considered himself a man of indomitable will, of steady hand, and of steadfast composure, yet even he felt a lump in his throat block out any attempt at vocalization. It was all he could muster to even rise from his knelt position before Lord Gwyn. Even the Great Lord’s warming presence with that radiantly proud smile on his face could nary distract him from the crushing pressure of the pomp and ceremony. The slide and clutter of plates cut through the silence as Artorias extended his arms limply, in concordance with the way his new liege raised the darkened silver Greatsword in his possession, then placed it gingerly into the waiting hands of the knight. He gripped around the weight with an old familiarity, a rare comfort in the overwhelming tension, briefly lifting the pressure from his shoulders.

Piece by piece, sound returned to the city of Anor Londo, a gradual reentry into normalcy. First it was the clerics, leading a small chorus in prayer following the ceremony. Then, the nobles, who turned to one another with whispers that soon escalated to casual conversation. The shuffling of armor and pattering of footsteps throughout the cathedral added the final percussion as the rhythm of the ever-busy Land of the Gods sank back into beat. And finally, the last sound to return, was that of Artorias’ own voice. He swallowed firmly, barely managing out his gratitude. “I give You my thanks, Great Lord. I hereby swear to serve You to the ends of this world, and any other which may occurreth thereafter.”

Gwyn seemed caught off by the expression, having begun himself to turn towards the rear of the sprawling foyer. He paused his turn, a warm laugh rumbling his throat at the aside. His words were not quiet; in fact, it was unthinkable that such a powerful deity could ever be considered anything but overbearing and loud, but it was firmly kept between the two of them alone, “Thou hast a gleaming future ahead of thee, brave knight. I have no doubt thou shalt.” And with that, Gwyn turned to the prominent cast of spectators to the rear of the Cathedral, to stand and talk among his wife and children near the statues so aptly depicting their own powerful visages.

Artorias finally felt himself breathe, releasing the first conscious breath he could manage in the many hours since the ceremony began. Tilting his head back, he gulped for air as if it would be the last he could find. Even without his helmet and hood obscuring his rough face, he felt suffocated by the sheer aura engulfing him. It was only recently that he managed to cut through the challenges of Sen’s Fortress, at the bequest of Lord Gwyn’s messengers, and first laid eyes upon the awe-inspiring visage of Anor Londo. After countless years living in the grand city’s shadow, under siege by the forces of dark which dwell only in the underbelly of Lordran, Artorias found himself finally bathed in light, free of the ever-encroaching dark he earned his name combating. For the squire who had grown in the forests, migrating through villages so small as to not even be worth a name, to be inducted as a Knight of Gwyn… Truthfully, he felt simultaneous waves of dread and ecstasy. Dread at the sudden attention, at the pomp and ceremony so foreign to him, at the crushing pressure of his newfound peers. Yet there was sheer glee for the honor, for the chance to bring the very power of the Sun to those who so desperately struggled without.

“… And that makes four,” A voice noted from behind Artorias, a tone so piercing and exact as to snap away his frenzied thoughts, the only tone which had any sort of familiarity among the crowds of aristocrats and demigods. His head lowered to meet the unshielded eyes of the Lion Knight who had first greeted him to this foreign land, the unmistakable plume of auburn hair and well-tanned brown skin setting the figure starkly apart from the whites and golds of Anor Londo’s monolithic halls. “Sir Artorias. Welcome to the Knights. I look forward to working with you,” He spoke with short, punctual sentences. From the few times Artorias had met his captain, he could see why he earned the title. Ornstein humored no time for frivolity or pleasantries, and offered very few peeks into whatever emotions he may have had. His keen, yellow-hazel eyes pierced through even Artorias’ heavy mail as he seemed to size up the newly inducted knight. Yet, even with the fearsome glare, the stiff-backed posture, and the ceremonial golden lion armor, a faint smile tugged at his lips. Even such a faint twitch was like a beaming grin for such a stony-faced man, and the sight of that hint of camaraderie did wonders to what remained of Artorias’ trepidation.

“And I to you, Sir,” Artorias responded with a small crack of his voice decompressing his bundled nerves. This was to say nothing of how strangely difficult he found it to untwist his tongue from the practiced formalities of archaic speech reserved for these lofty ceremonies. It took him a short beat to remember simple grammar to continue speaking with a nodding bow of his head, “It is an honor.”

Ornstein released a breath through his nose, raising his eyebrows in amusement before nodding his head. Much like Gwyn, Ornstein seemed all too familiar and bemused with the songs of praise and honor directed towards him, almost to the point of charmed that someone so humble managed to squirm their way into the realm of gods and heroes. “You are still unacquainted with this place, are you not?” Ornstein continued, jumping to yet another point of business, “It would be unbecoming for a knight of Gwyn to be seen wandering aimlessly about.”

Artorias gave pause, glancing over his shoulder at the looming surroundings, all painted glasses and marbled columns where he had previously been so acquainted with mossy stone and rotting wood. The people were just as alien, all freshly washed and cleanly groomed, wearing clothes ranging from the finest pooling linens to polished, spotless armor. This was to say nothing of the figures which seemed to so casually intermingle here. Below the wall, humans roamed en masse, and the giant beings like himself who often drew fear, ire, and awe were sparse to come by. Many had succumbed to hostility, and no such large gathering of mortals would be found in the towns of Lordran, too mired by divisiveness and violence to cooperate even for so long as to host such a ceremony.

Yet here, folks unlike any Artorias had seen simply commingled. Human servants carried trays of delicacies, oftentimes so large as to require multiple holders, to towering nobles wearing armor of so many unknowable origins. Silver knights leaned against the walls, displaying a rare lack of formality as they spoke casually to one another, many having pulled off their helmets to reveal the characters so expertly hidden by their divine armor. Massive sentries, draped with clerical cloth and wielding halberds nearly doubling Artorias’ own size, stood careful watch at the gate, not even allowed the opportunity of conversation as their divine and human counterparts. Nestled between the columns closest to the guarded exits were more complexly armored soldiers, no doubt knights of amazing renown from lands far and wide, who had adventured across lands Artorias could only dream of, and whose names were likely known by all except his own outsider perspective.

Then, along the far wall, lining the elevators to the divine bedchambers, were a cast so renowned to even be recognized by Artorias. Seath the Scaleless, that gargantuan beast, sprawled his many-tentacled, colorless torso across the marble floors, claws opening and closing as he spoke in a voice so surprisingly refined for a creature of such monstrous appearance. Congregated around him were the characteristic hoods of the Izalith coven, so small and unassuming in stature compared to the deities around them, yet exuding an energy more chaotic and unsettling than any creature of Dark had impressed upon Artorias. Gwyn had joined the group to speak with the prodigal Kings of New Londo, the largest city beneath the wall, all four of the monarchs enraptured by Gwyn’s inaudible words. Sister Gwynevere stood tallest of the gods, eyes closed in tranquil thought as she overlooked the ceremony as busy nobles gathered to her feet, doubtlessly still handling the day-to-day of the Cathedral so that all others may focus on the festivities. And then, to the far side, estranged from Gwyn, the God of War and Heir of Sunlight, Sen, concerned himself with Flann, God of Flame, who burned so brightly as to cast shadows out from his immolating presence. Immediately contrasting the brightness was the dreary dark of Nito, watching the proceedings with a deathly silence.

It was a cast from a fairy tale, one which Artorias felt all the more crushed beneath its impressive scale and grandeur. That pause, once simply to gather his words, had dragged into a stunned silence, and when his wandering eyes dragged back to Ornstein, the golden knight furrowed his brow. “… _Sir Artorias_? Shall I repeat myself?”

“No, no. Apologies, Captain. I just—” Artorias sucked in a hesitant breath, exhaling shortly, “Is this usual? For such a crowd to be present for my knighting… I am honored, but—” His voice trailed, unsure of the significance of such a gathering for a previously unremarkable swordsman.

“Somewhat, yes,” Ornstein responded with all the drollness of a man far too desensitized to the mythical factor of his surroundings. “Don’t get too large a head, Sir Artorias. They have attended your knighting, but they are truly here for audience with Lord Gwyn. The timing was simply auspicious.”

Yet more weight eased from Artorias’ shoulders, and even he found himself surprised with how overwhelmed he felt by the pressure of this scenario. He knew himself a loner, earning far more than enough jokes for this trait paired with his affinity to wolves, but he hadn’t expected such a crushing sense of sheer anxious dread from a mere social gathering. Truly, such an experience was more than humbling.

Ornstein seemed to notice, another smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he added, “You seem overwhelmed. Come, I can show you the palace. Anor Londo is imposing, I’m sure. But this is simply the Cathedral. Perhaps it would help for you to get some air, and find your chambers.”


End file.
